How many kids does it take to make an author?

I was just about to write a post on my breathtaking few days at the Art of Writing retreat in Tuscany last week (endless tree-decked hills, feisty writerly company – stayed tuned next week) when this article caught my eye.

Zadie Smith criticises author who says more than one child limits career.

I have a soft spot for women writers with kids, which doesn't mean I have a hard spot for women writers who don't. And readers of this blog will know I can’t pipe down if there is a discussion on Career vs Motherhood and the myriad of life strategies there are in between. Throw the dilemmas of the writer into that stew, and you have my attention. Reader, do your thang.

 

Last week a Guardian journalist cobbled together a text based on Zadie Smith's and Jane Smiley's comments upon an Atlanta article written by Lauren Sandler, which has raised a few hackles. The Guardian then provided a study in graphs and pie charts to investigate the equation one child=genius. My first thought: Who says an author is a genius??Ahem.. I don’t necessarily. Brilliant yes, but a genius? Do you? 

Sandler, only child and mother of one, finds that several of her beloved writers are mothers of only children and wonders if their oeuvre might have been compromised by the production of further offspring. She cites a comment by Alice Walker (whose mother-daughter conflict is well-documented and painful to read): ‘..Because with one you can move. With more than one you’re a sitting duck.’

Sandler goes on to lament,  ‘Is stopping at one child the answer, or at least the beginning of one?’

Indignant Zadie Smith commented that ‘..as the parent of multiples I can assure Ms. Sandler that two kids entertaining each other in one room gives their mother in another room a surprising amount of free time she would not have otherwise.’

Not all mine

Hmm. While I do remember typing out my first novel with my eldest in a basket on the floor in Mogadishu, my recollection of the faraway time when I had (just) two offspring brings back the less lyrical image of Older Son driving a train over Baby Son’s face. I’d love to agree with Zadie that children entertain themselves quietly, but in my household this has rarely been the case. Illness, fighting, food, mean that Mummy is nurse, referee, shopper all at once, on-and-off during the day.  Child care? Well, until writing pays for that and the bills, I have the school system to thank for that. 

Sandler’s article also reflects upon the lives of her ‘revered’ authors, citing cases such as Joan Didion, Elizabeth Hardwick and Alice Walker, and though it serves the purpose of her argument that greatness is limited by multiple reproduction, it feels a little like peeking through the rubbish bin behind a famous person’s house – too much information. Would she have been the same writer, had she had more children to drop by with in-laws, or less quiet time to workshop her novels? Was she selfish? Is this how greatness was achieved?

While heartfelt, it seems rather limited. And – even more silly – in the Guardian piece that examines the ratio of larger families to literary genius, it appears that most successful novelists produce zero children, although the second most popular number is two. Thirty-eight percent of females in the literary genius category (Joyce Carol Oates, Harper Lee) have no children compared to twenty-seven percent of males. Novelists have more kids than poets. Norman Mailer rocked the survey by having eight children. With four kids, I find myself in the same category as John Updike, E. Annie Proulx (a late starter) and Saul Bellow. So there's hope for this writing junkie yet.

As Zadie Smith rightly says, there are so many factors essential to a writer’s career. An understanding partner, childcare, family support. And there are so many elements that might limit a writer’s – or anyone’s – career. Health, personal and economic issues quickly come to mind. Lack of determination, lack of clarity of purpose, even plain bad luck.

So where are we with all this? There are big egos and neglected children in every sector. Writing takes time and endless belief. Kids are a timesuck but they can save you from yourself, enrich, impair. And there’s no easy way to become a literary genius, or even a halfway happy published writer, with or without sprogs calling you up all the time, expecting cash, emptying the fridge, stealing your clothes and telling you you’re clueless...

Venice on my mind

This skinny writer has been flitting around. Not internationally. On trains, in cars, in boats, on heels. I was invited to the Australian Pavillion at the Venice Biennale, and rocked up with my accent and previously mentioned handbag. I felt a little silly and couldn't find my friend (hello, telephone?). But it was so lovely to be swept up by art works and gorgeous lighting and swanky people and that bubbly didn't hurt either...

The Venice Biennale is like the Oscars of art ceremonies, with most of the countries you can think of represented in national pavillions in the Giardini at the the north of the island, or in the vast halls of the ancient Arsenale nearby. If you pay the entry fee of 25e you can see either one, then come back another day and see the other. There are also free exhibits are scattered across the city in curious rooms lapped by canal water, or elegantly decaying palazzi overlooking boats swishing past. Grab a map in a bar or at the station, and start hiking (sometimes you have to catch a vaporetto and it's a good idea to buy an all-day travel card). Do wear a hat.

Ai Weiwei watched by prison guards

It's tremendously exciting, even if you don't quite understand what you find before you. And such a thrill to see the machinations of art at work. I saw Tibetan monks preparing coloured sand mandalas and a friend's fabulous design on show. I hiked up to the church of Sant'Antonin to see SACRED, Chinese artist Ai Weiwei's six massive steel boxes placed incongruously on the dazzling marble floor. Through tiny window holes you can see the 81-day prison experience of Weiwei in a series of dioramas depicting the lack of privacy and the sense of menace inside the cell, complete with the artist sitting on the toilet watched by guards.

Congolese soldiers in a hot pink war - can beauty convey suffering?

Though I spent three days walking about I still feel I haven't seen enough. And some works were so compelling you want to see them again. Like the Irish Pavillion, which showed the film documentary of artist Richard Mosse, the culmination of three years of exploration of war-torn Congo. Shown on multiple screens in a darkened room (you sit on the floor with boats gurgling past), you are surrounded by gun skirmishes, a discarded body on the road, an endless refugee camp - all shot on discontinued military film intended for camouflage detection. The result is a viciously beautiful voyage in jarring colour through a country frayed by war. Local sounds, songs and metallic music accompany the series of scenes which offers no narrative, no exit. I found it compelling.

On my last day I wandered into a palazzo called the Future Generation Art Prize, and I joined a small group of people in a lavishly furnished Venetian room. They were watching a young man dry-humping the white sheets of a four-poster bed. I watched for a few minutes, thinking how lusty and naughty in the afternoon, feeling like a total voyeuse. What cheek(s)!

No photographs of that, sorry ladies, but here are some other arty glimpses.

Jeremy Deller's English Magic - hawk clutches Range Rover in his critique of wealth

David Bowie steps out on hIs 1972 tour, a year Deller examines through image

Chinese sweetness and kitsch

This man is an island - from the Finnish Pavillion

The marvellous and manic work of Sarah Sze from the USA

Body talk on the lagoon

Sumptuous palazzo detail - sigh !

Is it time to talk about Breasts?

As the media is awash with Angelina Jolie's decision to undergo a double mastectomy to reduce her risk of developing cancer, I thought I'd add my two cents' worth. Guardian journalist Hadley Freeman wrote about Jolie's announcement as something that overturns public perception of celebrity lives. By introducing fragility, by humanising a body many have seen as an icon of female sexuality, Jolie has taken steps away from the copy-selling frenzy of the press and redefined to some degree the way we perceive ourselves.

Jolie's piece in The New York Times was a quiet account of her mother's suffering, her wish to protect her kids and her personal health choice. No fanfare, this is not Lara Croft talking. We've all had scares and it's damned frightening. And friends who so bravely face the brutal treatment we have at hand today. Yet, ask any Western doctor what causes this terrible disease and you will get the eye-roll or hands raised martyr-style in the air.

In Italy breasts are currency and you can travel far with a good rack. You can't turn on the television or enter a newsagents without being knocked out by a pair. If you go to the dentist, you will see that every self-respecting young mother or ageing star has a lovely set of melons. You will hear your daughter talking about breast enhancement as something viable, something her friends might be considering. You will see the mothers at school with perky sweaters and puffy lips.

You may even back away from a conversation where middle-aged men are discussing what fake boobs feel like - how they stand up when the woman lies down on the bed. How they taste just as good.

It's totally out of control. Women's bodies are no longer governed by what is the natural progression (or cup size) of our lives. So often I am horrified by what women do to themselves. And for what reason? Fame and fortune? Because you had a kid? Will it stop your man from straying? Does it help you feel younger on the inside?

Instead nobody talks about health issues. About research. About checkups. About lifestyle choices. If all the money spent on silicone had been pumped into research I bet we would be closer to a cure by now. Instead, how much more money is to be made by foisting this sad aesthetic upon us and filling our beautiful daughters with insecurity? For now, breast cancer is here to stay, and we can only do ourselves a favour by talking about it.

I never thought I would be saying Thank You, Angelina. (Especially after seeing that spy thriller on the plane a couple of years back.) I've always thought you were a beautiful but slighty contrived actress. But hey, you've snared Brad Pitt who earned 7 million for that Chanel commercial.. and you have a whopper body, mansions galore, the world at your feet...

But you're just as vulnerable and afraid as the rest of us.

Angie, very best wishes to you and your family. And thanks.

Portrait of a Lady (2)

A while ago I wrote about the Art of Writing Retreat in Tuscany this summer where I will be speaking. My topic will be Blogging from the Heart - Grassroots Book Promotion. I was planning on using my usual public-speaking tricks: a glass of prosecco beforehand, a pair of sturdy heels, a few strong ideas to cling to.

Drink your water, Catherine.
See if you can make them laugh.
Relax.

It's not that I think I'm a blogging expert. I'm not. I'm a non-geek who can't open zip files and I only write a post when I'm bursting with an idea. This blog is for fun. For me, the crucial thing is the real writing - the space I make for it, the ideas I let come in, the way I am trying to build up a body of work. In fact I was really chuffed when a big writer included 'Don't Do Social Media' in her tips for the newly published - saying that writers should be working on their craft rather than blabbing about it. You see, I agree. She said that 'Author Platform' was almost the dirty refrain of our times. Interesting, eh?

And yet. Blogging, facebooking, sketching out that platform - these are now expected of all authors by publishers big and small. But how much do they help? Is there a tipping point when the time you pour into your online presence results in a leap in sales? Hmmm, I wish. Anyone who is book promoting out there knows that it is hard, humourless work. Sending off review requests, sounding vivacious in interviews. Blogging feels more tangible because it can foster an exchange of ideas and a support network. To feel that at any given moment you are not the only creature in holey tracksuit pants and last night's mascara telling yourself you are pumping out valid words. To feel a little cohesion, right?

However. While it is great to feel less alone in our dreariest clothes while our ideas are soaring, a chilly thought is just that: WE ARE NOT ALONE. We are surrounded by gazillions of people all over the world doing exactly the same thing. Typing, musing, bragging, uplifting, telling. I'm certain this planet has never known this level of global chest-beating.

That said, I'd love to hear your thoughts on what you think constitutes a good, resounding blog.

What do you think makes a blog sing in the dark?
What touches you?
What makes a blog worth your time of day?

In other news from the ranch Mark's portraits have been trickling in and though I'm tempted to photoshop a pair of cats' eye sunnies on the model's face, I've decided to share a few of them. Please select which of these foolish women you would select/crop for an interview/book jacket shot.

And don't laugh.

Under one of Padova's arcades

Sassy on some villa's steps

Would you read a book by this half-drunk woman?

My son's favourite - looks very grassroots!

The Dangers of Handbags

This is just a piece of advice from a frivolous lady.

Do not go to London. Do not buy a cheap ticket ostensibly for your daughter's university Open Day. Do not relish the idea of a break from home. Do not take a near-empty suitcase.

Do not turn up on a strikingly sunny week where you can walk for hours, dawdling, wandering, discovering. Do not go down posh streets you've never savoured before. Do not gaze into shop windows.

Do not be tired out by teenage shopping and start hankering for some age-appropriate surrounds.

Do not spend a whole afternoon in a bookshop sofa reading half a book.

 

Do not be enthralled by the big city rush and will you stop checking out all the handsome and varied men that London throws your way?!

Do not drink all that excellent beer.

Do not fall in love with a handbag. You live in Italy, land of handbags and shoes. You have bills. You are a moneyless writer.

Do not go back and look at handbag. Touch her. Open her up.

Do not have marvellous lunch with best mate who like you is a devoted dream shopper.

Do not think how much said handbag could help you out of your post-winter slump and the last so-so months. Do not tell yourself you have a significant birthday ahead. Well, only eight months away.
 

Do not ask for your daughter's approval - duh, she already wants to borrow it.

Do not think, I deserve this! Who says you do?

Do not go back to posh shop.
Do not cross road with sweaty hands and weak knees.
Do not feel like an idiot (again) in front of Polish doorman.

Because there's no turning back.

Swimming Pools, Tall Grass and Cherry Blossoms

The time has come for change. No more boots. Short sleeves. Silver rings and bangles. Sunhats in the garden. For all of its political chaos Italy usually pulls out all the stops on good, wine-drinking weather. Saucy sauvignon in the garden. Seductive primitivo at night.

Every year I have a big big dream that doesn't seem to be coming true. A swimming pool. How I would love a pool here. Having grown up in the Sydney suburbs splashing in and out of our Clark aboveground pool I grew up with chlorine-filled ears and wet hair. Goosebumps at the end of summer. Summer skinny dipping sometimes.

Now, living in the Italian countryside means that while we are blessed with cherries to die for, a veggie patch, wisteria in scented bells at the front door, we are far from the big smoke and its attractions. So I always figured a pool would even out what might be missing. Long lazy laps and a drink under my palm trees. Good mates and some racy music. Entertainment without having to drive, queue, park. A wonderland for my kids.

For we have a big garden, currently full of cherry blossoms and long bright green grass - so long I can't find my erba cipollina anymore - and I could easily squeeze in a pool without even bothering the trees or my non-existent neighbours. And summertime here is stinky hot and loooong if you don't mind, up till September when I'll bring out my cardigans again.

Ahh dreamtime. This writer has starting plotting and it's not my new book.

What's your unreachable dream?

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Last week's winner was Lyn with her very truthful comment. Do contact me Lyn so I can send you your birthday DLC copy!

Portrait of a Lady (1)

Pretty soon it's been a year since 'The Divorced Lady's Companion to Living in Italy' came out and I think I need a birthday party. A year ago I was a terrified debut novelist virgin. Absolutely clueless. My publisher is a small British press so much of the promotion was up to me. I organised a small bash in London, invited mates and family, sent over some local prosecco and brought a nephew who knows how to keep glasses filled. I had to talk about myself and about my novel, and I was in a total fluster. I forgot my own name when I was signing books.

And yet it was a killer night for me, a real milestone in coming away out of my cocoon.

Around that time I also did a blog tour and grew absolutely sick of talking about myself, trying to sound interesting and plugging the book. Some of you have shown support there, so thank you very much. Then there were some literary festivals where I had a microphone in front of me, a jug of water and lights. Not my thing at all, but I battled through. A couple of times I even made people laugh.

Sales have not been in the 'Fifty Shades of Grey' category, but okay for an independent book. I'd have liked more, but hey, I don't have a marketing team, or any more than twenty-four hours in a day. Selling is very hard work. And unfortunately, however much you love or like your book and are pleased with your publishers and reviews have been satisfying, the most nagging feeling is that you haven't done enough. You haven't done enough readings, you haven't networked enough, you haven't secured enough reviews. It can feel so depleting.

And then there's the after-book void. What do I do now? Do I keep rattling on about this book? Won't people get sick of me? Shouldn't I have a second book in the wings? Will my publisher let me change genre?

I've ended up spending this year - as I imagine many authors do - polishing book two (which was thankfully accepted before the first came out), blogging like mad, sending off review copies. Some days I feel like Catherine McNamara's secretary, hoping she doesn't catch me on Facebook if she pops in from the other room. Other days I'm steeped in a new story and looking at the long editing-submission-acceptance-editing-promotion road ahead. Some days I receive the thrilling news that a story has been accepted, more often it's a rejection which I immediately hand over to the secretary next door...

But today I feel like doing a birthday giveaway. To those of you who haven't read DLC, or those of you who have but don't want to surrender your signed copy, how about jotting down below:

1. What you LOVE about Italy
2. What you HATE about Italy

I'll have my Italo-Aussie-Ghanaian tribe help me judge the winner and I'll send you a copy plus some flirty bookmarks!

In other wild news I have my own personal photographer flying in tomorrow to produce a glam portrait for promotion for 'Pelt and Other Stories' due out in July. Mark Ritchie is a brilliant Australian photographer who has made Spain his home. What on earth do I wear/attempt to convey? While DLC is heavy on divorcée humour, 'Pelt' is where I trot out my literary wares - tales of lust and dirt on the cusp between Africa and Europe.. (Having said all that I'll add that I lived with a photographer for five years, that I HATE having a lens in my face, and that most shots have me with my eyes closed. This is not going to be easy.)

* * *

P.S. My story 'Taxidermy' was launched in Issue Two of 'A Tale of Three Cities' at Le Carmen Book Club in Paris on Sunday night! 'A Tale of Three Cities' is the first arts journal to salute the golden triangle cities of London, Paris and London. My piece is set in Berlin and will be included in 'Pelt'. Je suis très très heureuse!!